Lune's parents sat in the front row.
He noticed them immediately, even before the lights dimmed. His mother's hands were clasped tightly in her lap. His father leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the stage.
When Lune appeared, his mother's breath caught.
During the applause, she cried.
The tears were quiet, controlled, but unmistakable. She wiped them away quickly, embarrassed, smiling through them as if apologizing to the strangers beside her. His father placed a hand over hers, squeezing once.
Relief radiated from them like heat.
Afterward, they found him in the hallway outside the auditorium. His mother pulled him into a hug without hesitation, arms wrapping around him fully, tightly, as if she were reclaiming something she had almost lost.
"You were wonderful," she said, her voice unsteady. "I didn't know you could—" She stopped, laughing softly through tears. "I didn't know."
His father nodded, eyes shining. "That was real," he said. "That was… emotion."
Lune stood still while they held him. He noted the tremor in his mother's hands, the way her breathing slowed as she hugged him. Contact soothed her. That was useful information.
"Yes," Lune said quietly.
They took him out for dinner that night. A celebration. His favorite dish ordered without asking. His parents spoke freely for the first time in months, their voices lighter, their laughter unforced.
"This changes things," his mother said, reaching across the table. "Don't you think?"
His father nodded. "He's not detached. He just needed the right outlet."
Outlet. As if something had been blocked and now flowed freely.
Lune listened.
They spoke of progress. Of growth. Of how proud they were. His mother spoke about telling the doctor. His father talked about future opportunities—clubs, competitions, scholarships.
They believed the performance had revealed something hidden.
Lune knew better.
Nothing had changed inside him. He had not discovered emotion. He had discovered application. Technique. Acting had not unlocked feeling. It had given him a sanctioned place to use his absence of it.
When they returned home, his mother lingered at his bedroom door. "I'm so glad," she said softly. "I was so afraid."
Afraid of what? Lune wondered. Of who he was—or of what she thought he wasn't?
"I'm okay," he said.
She smiled, reassured. "I know."
But she didn't.
That night, lying in bed, Lune stared at the ceiling and considered the distance between what his parents believed and what was true.
The gap was widening.
And for the first time, he understood that it might never close.